


blasphemy

by inheritor



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Religious Content, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inheritor/pseuds/inheritor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave wears a clean red suit and says he's a demon. John runs a bookstore and says he's busy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blasphemy

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the [prompter](http://punnery.tumblr.com/post/42073805290/blasphemy) for the wonderful suggestion!! Inspired in part by Good Omens and His Dark Materials.

The demon first emerges from the self-help aisle, somewhere between the dating for dummies and diet books with cakes on the cover. John is running the register at the time, and the lady in the pink track suit insists she’s buying _used_ books and _used_ books should cost less, but no, ma’am, the bargain bins have a flat price, but they’re _used_ ma’am please. By the time she leaves, running shoes squeaking over the floor, John can’t think why this handsome boy wouldn’t be a demon.

Dave appears in a clean red suit, and he is slim and handsome. His tie flicks out like a snake’s tongue, and his shoes have black buttons on the sides. He wears sunglasses, even inside the bookstore, and John would think he didn’t have eyes. But he does. John can barely see them through the shades. They’re big, and wide, and full of hope, and John thinks that’s why he hides them.

“So why are you here?” John rings up the cash register. It’s a hollow sound.

“Seven sins. Four horsemen. Take your pick, doesn’t matter. My lips are locked tighter than your mother’s panties drawer.” Dave drops his elbows against the counter. He’s close enough that John can see the suit stretched taut along his back. He can smell him, a singed scent, smoldering and tannic.

“Are you one of the seven sins?”

“Everybody sins, dipstick. And I’m not one of those sin personified, that’s cheesy shit. But if you’re asking for my biggest one, you nosey little shit, it’s lust. In Latin, it’s luxuria, and I know that because all demons know Latin. We’re old as balls. I’m talking old man balls, hanging and sagging and all wrinkly, stuffed in ratty scratch-and-sniff boxers.”

Dave drops his head, fingers idly weaving a pattern against the cool countertop. John studies the top of his head, where the light hair mingles over darker strands. He wonders if sorrow is a sin, and if it would be Dave’s sin, but he doesn’t say this out loud. He doesn’t like being called a dipstick. So he makes tea in the backroom, and serves two.

—

When John opens the store at nine, Dave is already inside. He’s sitting on a nest of books, mostly taken from the theology aisle. John notices a plush Bible under his ass. He probably has to sell the bible at half price, now. That’s the proper markdown for a holy book touched by a demon. He knows these things because he is an adult.

Dave has raided a few aisles, the theology tomes joined by tasteful photographs of pornography and comic books. He’s also stolen thick headphones, which he’s clamped over his ears. His iPod hangs from his waist, the black case peering out when he shifts and his red suit jacket peels away. The music echoes in a tinny sound, even through the heavy lining of the headphones. John thinks it’s rap, but he doesn’t ask, not even when he dusts around the book nest with his broom.

It’s a busy day, full of ladies in track suits and balding men in tweed and greasy faced teenage boys and girls with more braces than smiles. John skips his lunch break to organize the bargain bin books, the flimsy paperbacks curling under his hands. Then it’s back to work, scanning bar codes and running the squeaking stepladder down the aisles and climbing to the top for books rotting from mildew and it’s late at night when he finally swings the CLOSED sign to the front. John takes his lunch from underneath the counter, the one he packs for himself in a paper bag, and finally approaches the demon.

Dave’s headphones rest around his neck. He’s staring down at a photography book, at a picture of a pig fetus preserved in a jar. John sits next to him. He opens his lunch bag, pulling out his pathetic sandwich. The lettuce is wilted and the soggy tomatoes have leaked into the wheat bread. He offers the poor sacrifice to the demon.

“No crust.” Dave flips to another page, a sarcophagus staring up from the black-and-white photograph. John can barely see the cover of the book, something about digitally remastered photographs. He hadn’t been aware the photographs had previously been mastered, or that they had escaped. But he doesn’t really care, holding out the sandwich.

“Screw you,” he tells Dave, “Eat the sandwich. You haven’t eaten all day.”

“I don’t need to eat your human food. Especially not that sad hoagie you got there. Demons live off sins and shit. Probably. It’s probably a law of physics, demons live off the depraved souls of guys who wank themselves to sleep.”

“So you’re full because my store has a lot of sinners?” John broods over this. “That sucks.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about your haven of sodomites. Sinners are everywhere. They just have different flavors.”

“What’s the flavor of this store?” John finishes tearing off the crust, passing him the sandwich. Dave shrugs, tearing apart the sandwich. His teeth are white. Crumbs fall on the photography book, and John thinks he’ll have to move that to the bargain bin with a brightly tagged USED sticker.

“Got anything else in there?” Dave licks his fingers, tongue curling around his flesh. He’s already pawing at the paper bag, and John draws it back from his saliva-sticky hands.

“Hold your horses! All of them! I got it, I got it… Okay, here. I brought an apple.” He fishes out the bright red apple.

“Seriously? You’re trying to feed me an apple?” Dave blinks, a reptilian eyelid flicker from beneath the shades, and he smirks in a natural way, like his face had been built for his smirk. “You’ve got to be shitting me. Have you ever read a bible in your life?”

“I went to church when I was younger.” He’s defensive because he was proud to have brought fruit with his lunch, the healthiest he’s been in months since his father died, but his memories distract him. He frowns in thought, and Dave hangs his wrists over his bent knees.

“You don’t go anymore?”

“Sometimes. I dunno. Not really. But I remember it, going there, when I was young.” John rubs his forefingers together, trying to remember. For a demon, Dave seemed at ease talking about the holy house. He nods with understanding.

“Did you like it?”

“I don’t remember that. I just… There was this part, where you had to eat Jesus. I remember that part, I really do.”

“Yeah, you guys do that.” Dave snorts, shakes his head. “How’d he taste?”

“Kinda stale.”

Dave refuses the apple, but he accepts the original sin’s offspring. He sucks on the yellow apple juice box until its insides are twisted and hollowed, collapsing on the weightlessness of itself, and he laughs at the little joke printed on the back. It is about cows, and John laughs too, because moo jokes are always funny. At the end of the night, he digs out an old blanket. Dave tells him that demons generate their own heat, something about brimstone and hellfire, and John tucks him into his book nest and promises to bring another apple juice box tomorrow, juice sucking jackass.

—

It’s easy to take care of Dave. It’s easier than taking care of himself. He brings two lunches, and watches Dave devour both. He runs the register during the day, fingers darting over numbers and eyes following the head of blond hair that bobs up and down through the aisles. Dave has moved away from his random assortment of books, and he methodically makes his way through the aisles. He’s on B for Birds, now, and John thinks he’ll stay there forever by the rate he’s reading every ornithology book.

“Birds,” Dave tells him, “are the fucking shit.”

A woman with a gold cross around her neck buys a hunting book. The startled doe stares out from the cover, and the barcode hangs like a jail sign from its neck. Dave doesn’t appear to care about the crucifix necklace, though, and saunters up to John. It must be a demonic skill, but Dave truly saunters. His hips move beneath his suit, his shoulders rocking over his gait.

“Do you want your lunch early?” John asks him, bagging her purchase. The woman leaves, and Dave drapes himself over him, arms over shoulders and angled hips pressed onto his ass. The smoldering singe is even stronger, now, a smoky crisp waft. His nose tingles.

“My eyes are tired.”

“Then take off your sunglasses when you read!”

“No.” Dave releases him and plops down onto a stool. John feels disappointed at the loss of warmth. He doesn’t let it show on his face, and instead watches Dave spin around and around. Dave’s propped his feet up, and his white socks appear over his dress shoes. John clears his throat, but nothing is stuck in it.

“Aren’t you freaked out by crosses and stuff? Holy water? Garlic?”

“That’s vampires, dumpass, and I’m no sparkly asshole. I’m a demonic asshole, there’s a difference. Are you writing this down? Write it.”

“Do you just go around corrupting people? Because you mostly just sit there and listen to crappy music. That’s not really… corrupty.” Nobody seemed to think Dave was strange, not even the pastor with his starched collar who bought a book about amphibology.

“The music,” Dave tells him with a certain solemnity gracing his arched neck, “is the shit. And nah. We don’t do that stuff anymore. You guys just talk yourself into hating thy neighbor. I came up because I got a special assignment.”

“Maybe you are really here to corrupt me.” It’s almost break time, so John closes the store and brings out the paper bag. Dave eats the crustless sandwich, feet swinging over the stool like a child. The joke on the back of his apple juice box is about a policeman who arrests a man for stealing second base. The joke seems fatalistic.

“You seem like a goody two-shoes type. Let me guess, you stole a stick of gum when you were five, and you left a wad of coins on the counter next time, because you were all bitten up inside by guilt.” Dave chews through the sandwich. “Holy fuck, you make good food.”

“Are you even allowed to say ‘holy’? And, for your information, jackass, the gum wasn’t even that good. Minty,” he explains, when he catches Dave swinging his head towards him. He turns the apple over and over in his hand, peeling away at the crisp red coat. Dave’s nostrils flare, shoulders shaking, but he restrains from laughing out loud.

“Yeah. Whatever. I’m allowed to use the big man’s name in vain.”

“Have you ever met God?”

“I’m not Margaret, so, no. Met Metatron, though.”

“The Transformer robot guy?”

“No, not the Transformer robot guy.” Dave raises his voice in a squeaky imitation of John, fingers flying up in mockery. John rolls his eyes. The knife cuts clean across the apple, and he leaves the slices on the plastic bag. Like a puckish bird, Dave ventures out, examines the slice, and eats it.

“Who’s Metatron?”

“Voice of God. He’s really fucking loud.”

“What does he say?”

“Nothing, nowadays. He’s the only dude I know who’s fucking loud even when he’s not saying anything.” Dave finds a peppermint that John has left at the bottom of the bag. The unwrinkled plastic is loud in the empty store. He pops the candy into his mouth, arms leaning over the counter again.

“God’s not saying anything? Is He dead?” John peers at the ceiling, where the water stains have left dark marks over the white tiles.

“Nobody knows. You really taking everything I say seriously? Demons always lie. We’re big liars, we practically invented peek-a-boo. Those asshole babies had it coming.”

“You’re not lying.”

Dave sits at the counter. He’s quiet now, and facing the door. John counts the cash from the drawer. The spare change rattles around and the bills lay crisp and dead in his hand. 

“It’s minty,” Dave finally tells him, tapping his cheek where the peppermint lays inside.

—

John has a television set, old and square, small enough to fit in his arms. He takes the afternoon to hook it up. Dave tells him that he’s stupid, that he’s a demon, he’s got better things to do than watch human television, souls to sell. He spends the rest of the week glued to soap operas. He likes All My Children and One Life to Live. He says he relates to the characters.

The evening brings in a man who buys a piano book. John is reminded of the time he won first place in piano playing. He remembers the weight of the mahogany award, and his father placing a hand on his shoulder. These thoughts make him sad. A woman who resembles his school librarian enters and purchases a dog training book. She has the same lack of chin, same brisk lines drawing her face to a close. If she was the school librarian, she does not recognize him. He does not have the confidence to recognize her.

It’s commercial time on Dave’s television set. Hey batta batta hey son you get in trouble with the cops call bail bonds service today enroll now for a limited time offer if I can do it and so can you on the next episode of the low low payment of twenty nine ninety nine it’s a steal call right now. The fan blades rotate like the blinks of an eye.

“Okay, so, you have demony powers. Can you tell what’s my biggest sin?”

“Sodomy.”

“I want a good sin, not just sodomy! And, no. Come on, what about… I can be wrath, right? I’m real wrathful.”

“Yeah, sure, you work nine to nine with that smile plastered on your face and you’re real dynamite there, kiddo. It’s like Hulk Hogan stuffed in a nerdy body.”

“Come on! Your biggest sin isn’t even lust.”

“It is too. Now fuck off, the show’s starting.”

Even though Dave had said he was lustful, he seems mostly drawn to motorcycles and not Playboy. He tells John that the motorcycles are called hogs, and seems thoughtful as he stares down the tubes of the engine. But maybe he misunderstood Dave, that maybe Dave was talking about himself being the object of lust. Because he thinks he might lust after Dave. He’s disappointed in himself. He can’t seem to lust right, unable to return to the sensations brought about by that magazine picture that he’s memorized, the one with the woman with long hair and longer mouth taking off her bra, breasts falling forward into the loose white cloth. But his lust for Dave is different, and strange, and he doesn’t like it. He wishes his father was still alive to tell him what to do, but he is an adult, and nobody tells him what to do.

The red suit makes Dave look like a demon, but he’s all angel inside. John can see that. He’s got angel bones beneath his skin, knit with holy love, blessings filling up the space of his spine. John’s in lust with his youth, the way he can see those big eyes underneath the sunglasses. He’s in lust over Dave’s quiet, the moonlit skin and midnight soul, the way his silhouette merges into his being when he stands on the stoop and smokes his cigarette, and his eyes are distant, but his jaw is sharp enough to cut him.

John can’t masturbate to him. He might, if he tried, if he locks himself up in his bathroom and jerks himself off in rough scrapes over his junk. Except he’s never been good enough to block out the clinking dinner plates of his neighbors, the offended honks of the automobiles outside. The troubles of the world weigh down on his genitals. But he doesn’t bother to try, because masturbation is an intimacy, and he barely knows the boy-comma-demon who lives in the bookstore.

“Is smoking a sin?”

“God, I hope so. Or at least it’s not some sort of blessing. I’d be a piss poor demon if it was a blessing.”

“What about drinking?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. You should drink, tell me if you feel sinful.”

“I can’t drink on the job!”

“Sure you can. Just put the shot glass to your mouth and what do you know. Goddamn magic.”

“You are trying to corrupt me. Actually, you’re doing a real awful job at it. Are you just a demon of minor conveniences?”

“Demon of minor conveniences. Jesus, listen to you, kid. No, I’m not a demon of minor conveniences. That’s pathetic. What am I supposed to do, sit on your shoulder? Tell you to steal another pack of gum? Demon of minor conveniences. Jesus Christ.”

“I’m just saying!”

“Then say less stupid things, jackass. Hey, I got your sin, right here. Figured it out. It’s Humility, you’re sinful of undercharging your books, stealing gum when you were two years old, and humility.”

“Isn’t humility a virtue?”

“On you, kid, it’s a sin. Now get out of here, my show’s starting.”

—

Dave steals his apple for lunch, so in revenge, John jams paper snakes into his yogurt cup. Dave yelps when the snakes spring in his face, so in retribution, he swears John will spend the rest of his days rotting in eternal damnation. It’s a nice day, clear skies, the heat wave still rolling down the streets like frisky fog. John has gotten better at variety for lunch, but Dave only likes apple juice. He sulks for the day if he finds grape juice or lemonade in place of his juice box.

“Hey, listen to this,” Dave says, leaning against the book case and reading the back of the juice box. “What time is it when an elephant sits on your alarm clock?”

“I don’t know, Dave. What time is it?”

“Time to get a new alarm clock.” Dave slaps his thigh, snickering, and John smiles. He’s on the top of a ladder, fixing a light. The steel creaks under his weight, and the heavy bookshelf seems frail like paper when he props his knee against it. His shirt clings to his neck and armpits through damp sweat. The height makes him dizzy.

“Maybe it’s time for you to stop reading those things, jeez. You like apple juice way too much.”

“You like apples way too much. You’re always bringing one with you to lunch, it’s like you’re Johnny Appleseed Egbert.” From below, Dave sucks on his juice box for his point. The empty droplets rattle up his plastic straw.

“Okay, that’s not my fault. This whole place used to be an apple orchard, so apples are really cheap here. And they taste pretty good!” The town once had more apple trees than people. Old photographs, spotted brown like liver spots, were hung up in the city hall archives to show the rows of trees, identical and looming in their demise.

“They better taste pretty good if you guys sinned for them.” Dave always did like to push it in.

“They taste great, thanks.” John breathes out when he pushes on the ceiling tile, untangling a dusty wire between his fingers. “You know we sell all fresh around here? All fresh apples. They can’t make apples in a lab or nothin’, not with all the DNA and enzymes and proteins. Just can’t make apples.”

“It’s hard to replicate original sin, go figure.”

“I never really got that part of the Bible. Like, what was the original sin?” He didn’t get any part of the Bible, if John was honest with himself. But he tried not to be, so he climbs down the ladder, each foot dropping to the next step in blind faith.

“How should I know? You guys have been asking for decades. All the biz with the omniscience God letting you guys steal his apples like doofuses, or if it’s fated, or whatever. You’d have to ask the big man himself.” Dave helps him down, gripping his hand as John lowers himself to the floor.

“Sorry for thinking a demon might have insider scoop!” John shakes his head, patting Dave on the shoulder, and shoving the ladder over to the next aisle. When Dave speaks, he has to raise his voice over the rattle of steel.

“I heard about the whole trouble with making apples with labs from a seer. Had to go talk to her for my mission. Or my mission impossible.” Dave lowers his voice again in the silence when the ladder halts in front of another broken light. “You think a demon knows everything? Come on, you guys know some shit, too. You’re just too stupid to ask the right people.”

“A seer?”

“A seer and a witch.” Dave hooks his hands over the ladder, holding it steady.

“Those are magics! It’s not real science. And real science is where it’s at.”

“Real science can’t make an apple.”

“Real science can make a screw you.” John’s missing a screwdriver from his tool belt, and he drops down to sort through his tool box. Dave bends down to help, his suit pants hitching up over his socks. Dave’s fingers pick through the nuts and bolts, thin fingers brushing against his, lingering a moment too long. He’s close enough to Dave to see flashes of his skin beneath the collar of his suit, the same smoldering scent of something burning in the distance that can never be put back together, the youthfulness of his cheeks, and the way his big hopeful eyes flicker towards him, eyes white like angel wings, maddening affection.

John later remembers that he never said he was looking for a screwdriver. And late at night, lying twisted in his thin blankets, he wonders if Dave had been looking for something else inside the silver tool box.

—

Dave talks a lot. He talks a lot during movie night, when they’re sitting with their hips pressed together, small television on the fritz. John tunes in and out, smelling the smoldering scent of hellfire burning beneath Dave’s skin. But he thinks Dave talks more than the words in his mouth.

“I was never human,” Dave tells him, arm slung around his shoulder. “I wasn’t born like you gross babies, all covered in shit and blood and looking like that thing from Alien. Shit no. God made me perfect and shit-free. I don’t shit. I’ve never taken a shit in my life.”

“You were a gross baby.”

“I was a perfect baby. I wasn’t even a baby, he just… gathered air and shit, gave life to us. Holy hands, like really big Play-Doh. You know the stuff.”

“No, but I don’t really care.” He glances at Dave, where the television image flickers against his sunglasses. “So are you a fallen angel?”

“It’s complicated. Like, shit, Heaven’s like the upstairs. But Hell’s the downstairs. And there’s stairs, in between them. That’s what happened. That’s why I’m a demon. I went down the stairs.” Dave nods at his answer, but John doesn’t particularly care about the response, either.

“Are you sure you weren’t a human? I knew this kid, in elementary school, he was kinda like you.” John examines his features, and Dave snorts.

“No way. I was never human.”

“You look human.”

“No.” Dave’s hand falls on his shoulder, and John can feel his thumb sweep over the thin cloth of the cotton, covering the sharp jagged bone. John pretends to pay attention to the movie, but the movie is full of static and meaninglessness, and Dave is looking at him in that way. Dave looks at him with his big eyes, sometimes, so filled with affection that John is scared, because he remembers Dave is a demon. It’s not the corruption to his soul, but the fire behind Dave’s thumb, the way he draws thin the T-shirt until his hand feels like he’s pressing against flesh, with eyes that seemed to want to look at him forever.

“Dave?” John tries not to breathe, stilling his chest. His head aches with phantom throbs, his bookshelves towering over him.

“Sometimes I think about it. If I was human. I wasn’t a human, so get that through your numbskull head, don’t make me flay you with your own heavyass books until you’re nerd pancake. But, shit, I can see it. If I was human and became demon. I’d be some snotty little kid, you know, that asshole who never gets a hog. And a hog’s a motorcycle. A big motorcycle, with those shiny knobs. But human me would never have a hog, so he wouldn’t know. He probably would live his entire life with his head down, not looking up. You know birds? I know birds, there’s this one bird. He looks like an asshole bird, got those claws like he’s stabbing your eyes out, he’d probably shit on human me. Not just regular shit. Like spoiled milk shit, just dripping long and juicy. Human me probably wouldn’t even notice. I’m pissing myself off here. He’d try too hard, that’s humanme’s problem. Tries so goddamn hard, everyday, working out his ass. Like one of those vaudeville acts, those hilarious shticks, except he’s the asshole who talks too loud and thinking he’s the hot shit. He probably wears his baseball cap backwards. Who even does that. But maybe one day, he tries too hard. Way too hard, I guess what I’m saying, is that for once in his life, he isn’t a piece of shit. He puts himself out on the line. He keeps it real, and not in that douchebag way. It’s a douchebag phrase, but he tries to live for once in his life. But it’s too late. He’s not used to being good, so he dies. That’s the end of the story. He dies, and becomes a demon, because he doesn’t like the world. But it’s his own goddamn fault. It doesn’t matter how he dies. He could die trying to save a little kid from traffic and slip on a banana and hit his head, whoops, surgeon can’t do anything about all those ventricles going bonkos in there. But the real thing is that he never tried to live once in his goddamn life. He tried to be cool and guess what, shithead, reality’s knocking with a baseball club, life’s over at eight, get thrown out of the club by those bouncers who’ve got muscles like big meaty hams. It’s like sometimes I think about the world like a huge apple. Or a tiny apple. Shit, it’s just an apple. It’s all red on the outside, but if you peel it, it’s weak on the inside. No. Not weak. It’s different. It’s different, it’s like you look at something your whole entire goddamn life, and it’s different just because you peeled over a tiny inch. That’s what I think. I never told anyone else. Not any other demons. Other demons are assholes, they cream themselves over adultery. But I’m telling you, because you get it.”

“I’m not very smart,” John tells him, touching the hem of the red suit.

“I know.”

“So why are you telling me?”

“Because.” Dave starts, stops, starts. “If human me had seen you trying, he might’ve tried. To live. Life. And, you know. You’re the only asshole I’ve met who’s tried to give original sin to the most sinful hellbeast in the world.”

“I’m nothing special,” John says, but he sits up, because his arm has started to fall asleep. The tingles run up and down his joints. Dave is looking at him. Dave is always looking at him, with the big eyes that he hides.

John kisses him, briefly. His lips linger without pressure, hand pressed down on his lap. Dave tastes like sin, warm and intoxicating and guilty and greedy, like burnt ashes and sorrowful and rich. He kisses him because Dave looks sad. He doesn’t tell him, because he doesn’t want to be called a dipstick. But he touches Dave’s light strands of air, and kisses the sorrow from his mouth.

—

John sorts the bargain bin by color, then by size, then by title. The organization soothes him. When he was young, his father had urged him to keep everything neat and clean. John kept his messes secret, but his books had been kept straight and organized. After his father died, one night, John noticed his books were out of order. He waited all night until he fell asleep, and the folds of the pillow left red marks on his cheek. When he awoke, the books were out of order. The sun shone. The clouds moved. The birds sang. And he felt, irrevocably, betrayed.

“Hell’s a shithole. You know that. Heaven’s probably nicer. There aren’t no halos or golden gates or clouds, it’s just… Heaven was built in like, the ancient days, so it’s like a rubber band ball. Are you following me here? Keep up.” Dave snaps his fingers in front of John’s face. He’s smiling the faint smile that’s always been on his face since John kissed him.

“I’m following! And I am trying to work here. Some of us have a job to do, you know.”

“At the center of the rubber band ball, there’s old Heaven. It’s Heaven when Heaven was first built, when people started believing in it. I’ve never been in there, so I don’t know. I don’t know if anyone’s licked Heaven to the center, but I heard stories about halls and log cabins and all that shit. Then new people showed up. Started building out. Now the newest areas got like, iPhones and shit. It’s pretty sweet.” Dave taps his iPod, hanging from his belt. His ear buds dangle from his neck.

“It sounds pretty sweet. Do they have Disneyland?”

“Dude. They have Disneyland here.”

“Well, I know. But Disneyland in Heaven is different than Disneyland on Earth. I mean, I bet the lines are shorter.”

“Don’t die for shorter lines. That’s just asshat stupid.” Dave opens the paper bag for his lunch, chewing on the sandwich.

“My dad died a few years ago. Do you know if he’s up there or not? In Heaven, I mean. Not on some jumbo jet or whatever.” John taps at the cash register, eyes flickering upwards to the sagging ceiling. He pretends not to notice Dave swallows the sandwich, the lump in his throat bobbing up and down. He looks down at the dead dollar bills. Dave clears his throat.

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s up there, man. He’s got this- big house. Really big. Super huge. Everything he ever wanted is in all the rooms. It’s the shit. It’s really the shit, he goes to every room once, and it’s filled with all his favorite things. Got pictures of you everywhere. And- he’s happy. He’s real happy. The big man’s taking care of him. He’s taking care of him real good.”

“You don’t know, do you?” John laughs, rests his hand over Dave’s head. “It’s okay. I don’t think demons know anything about heaven.”

Dave swallows again, hands twisting against his dark red suit. John combs through the money, and jots down a number on the yellow pad. His numbers stray from the lines. He fixes a number, and slides the money into the safe. When he stands up again, Dave is looking at him, sad and hopeful, knees still raised on the stool like a child.

“Sometimes,” Dave says, “You make me wish I was born a son of Adam.”

“Don’t be stupid. Being a demon is cool too. I mean, you get to go anywhere you want?” John touches his hand, finger trailing up the hollow bones.

“Technically, I’m here for a special mission.”

“Is it a super secret mission? Like James Bond?”

“No. Not like James Bond. Jesus Christ, you watch too many movies.” Dave slides his hand underneath, playing with the weight of his fingers. “We haven’t heard from the big man in centuries. I’m here to look for him.”

“So why are you in this dinky bookstore instead of, like, on a mountain? Actually, pretend I didn’t say that,” John tells him, feeling the rough fingertips skim across his wrist. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I’m not leaving. And not for some stupid guess that God’s on a mountain somewhere, sunbathing. Jesus.”

“Why aren’t you leaving?”

“First you tell me I shouldn’t go, and now you’re asking why I’m not going?” Dave shakes his head in mock disappointment, and John laughs.

“Shut up and tell me already.”

“I don’t know. Because my ribs hurt. Because I think I can find God right here. Because it’s a pointless mission. Because I got books to read. Because this is my favorite goddamn stool in the whole world. Take your pick.”

“You’re stupid,” John tells him, and Dave leans forward to kiss him. He still tastes hot and smoldering, and John inhales the smoke, stool creaking as he kisses him further. Dave breaks off the kiss with more shyness than John thought demons could ever have, and he’s glancing away with the red tinge floating to his face.

“It gets cold at night in the bookstore,” John says, “so you should sleep in my apartment from now on.”

“Demons don’t get cold, asswipe. We got our own heat. We’re demons, we burn in Hell, that’s what we do.”

“I’ll start moving your things tonight.”

John pulls out the apple from his lunch. Dave sits there, in his burning red suit, and watching him with his angel eyes. He turns the apple over and over in his hand, feeling the solidity of existence and the heaviness of sin. With his knife, he slices the apple into two. He picks up a slice, and bites into it, teeth digging at the core and juice dripping down his hand.


End file.
